


God's Curse Is All Good

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Angst, Demon!Sherlock, Demons, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Meetings, M/M, Magic, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-13
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:27:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It would be far too easy to sacrifice just the smallest bit of his health in exchange for a demon's power surging through his veins.</i>
</p><p>John never thought he would be foolish enough to enter a contract with a demon, but, as it turns out, dying slowly and horribly in the middle of a desert makes one very desperate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Light and dark are forever intertwined, just as growth is always followed by decay and back again. Two sides of the same coin, bound by fate, and often forgotten to the peril of fools.

Hidden beneath the layers of a beautiful cycle lies corruption, devastation, the likes of which are impossible to determine until it's far too late.

As a practitioner of life magic, John Watson knows this unwritten rulebook by heart, a mantra he whispers to himself from underneath a surgical mask as he gently repairs tears in flesh, with the most concentrated bit of magic at the tips of his fingers. He uses his magic sparingly, only for dire emergencies when tools will only prove to make the damage worse. He refuses to be like the others, who become consumed entirely by their gift, and cross the delicate line dividing restoration with destruction.

Blood sings to him, it always has, and in that way he understands the depth of power contained in life. It would be far too easy to sacrifice just the smallest bit of his health in exchange for a demon's power surging through his veins. No one would notice, and no one would even consider someone like him would do such a thing. Blood sacrifices were for the desperate. However small, it acts like an impossibly addictive drug, calling the magic user back with sweet whisperings in their ear and promises of greater power each time. These offerings would soon not be enough; blood doesn't provide enough nourishment for demons to thrive, and once their have found an adequate thrall, one who make the final mistake of _trusting_ them, they have no need to stop until they drain them of everything-- body and spirit. Demons are destructive, chaotic evil by nature, and will stop at nothing to consume a human's life force to strengthen their own power.

After all, human life is their one foot-hold into the mortal plane. A demon, after devouring enough human souls, would be able to fully manifest as one in physical form and have a supreme advantage over its brethren, not to mention countless lives to manipulate freely as it desires. 

Normally, this process would take thousands upon thousands of years to complete. For an average demon, perhaps.

John is not and has never been fooled by those odds. He's far more wise than to think all demons are held to the same standard, an imaginary ceiling of power that they cannot surpass. If it's possible to have extraordinary people in the world, then he is certain-- with a combination of horror and apprehension-- that just as many extraordinary demons lay in wait on the other side.

 

Someone is screaming. John thinks it might be him.

Bullets are pounding the sand around him in volleys of tens or hundreds-- he's too dizzy to count-- and he tries to cough to clear his already dried throat of sand, but he spits up blood and bile instead. The taste is horrendous, sharp and bitter on his lips, but it works to put him on alert and he quickly pats himself down for damage. There's more blood than he remembers from just a moment ago and he isn't sure where it's all coming from. He sees it pooling in the folds of his combat trousers and the sight makes him immediately nauseous, his fingers clutching at his knee, then moving downward to search for the major artery but not finding anything that could cause _so much blood--_

His head is spinning and he feels light-headed. His other hand touches his shoulder, which throbs in a peculiar sensation, and he bites down hard to prevent himself from shrieking at the amount of pain that courses through him all at once. Shoulder wound: far more deadly than the movies claim they aren't.

John tries to find his center, spark just enough magic to stop the major bleeding, but he's met with utter drought and his strength is fading too rapidly for him to try to move or call for help. His limbs are growing heavier, and he chokes back a sob and curls in on himself slightly, the sounds of gunfire blending into static and the panicked rattling of his failing heart.

_No_

He disappears for just a moment and feels his face pressing into damp, red sand. He is no longer sure if he's breathing or not, or even how much of him is left, if he hasn't already been eaten away by the desert and buried under the dunes.

_Please, God, let me live._

He reaches out to his power one last time, using the last threads of his will to make the attempt, and is met by fire.

“I can save you,” a voice thrums in his head, “my dear, idiotic soldier.”

He is enraptured by the blaze at his core, spreading sensation to his limbs in sluggish waves. This is not his doing, but he feels his death come to sudden and screeching halt in front of him, and he is desperate.

_Please--_

“What will you give me in return for your life?” It booms like distant thunder in the back of his head.

John swallows hard, tasting copper and grit.

_Anything. Everything._

“Prove it, then. I accept your contract.”

A shadow looms over John as fire gathers at his shoulder, and he slips into blessed darkness.


	2. Contract

The first thing John awakens to is intense pain throbbing in his chest. He grimaces and shifts in place-- he's lying on something soft-- while trying to force his eyes open. He slips them open a crack and is met with blinding light, at which he hisses and closes his eyes again. Footsteps approach him.

“Try not to move, Captain. We were able to patch up your shoulder, but you need to allow yourself some time to heal.” The gentle voice comes from a woman, who he feels lightly touch his good arm in a small act of comfort. John wants to ask a thousand questions at once-- about his squad, about the fight, about exactly what happened before he nearly died-- but lacks the energy to do more than struggle pathetically in the hospital bed.

At the very least, he knows where he is. There are several buildings acting as makeshift A&E units in the East, where a group of trauma doctors would dedicate their time to treating casualties from the war effort. They were always frantic and so few, but they did their job brilliantly with what little resources they had.

Releasing a steady sigh, John allows himself to relax under the weight of scratchy blankets, and listens to the commotion of the doctors and soldiers for several minutes.

“Ah, good, you're finally awake.” His heart leaps into his throat at the return of a familiar voice, though it sounds much less like a hallucination caused by a near death-experience, and more like someone standing over his body and talking down to him. He opens his eyes and sees an empty room and the stark white panels of the ceiling.

_Who--?!_

“Have you forgotten already?” The voice asks sharply, impatiently. “Have I been gone long enough for humans to stumble down the evolutionary ladder even further?” John feels only slightly offended at the posh voice insulting him, his attention focusing on the way it spat out the word "human" as though it tasted utterly foul on its tongue.

Memories of bleeding into the desert sands rush back through him, and terror grips at his heart in a choke hold.

_Oh, oh god. You're a demon and you're in my head._

A restrained sigh. “Not entirely, no, but this makes communication between us easier.”

John is at a loss for words as he lies still, staring upward. He feels his heart pounding out a steady rhythm, and the slight ache of the bullet wound in his shoulder under the cover of sedatives. He understands fully, the consequences of his actions. In that moment he had become every person he ever hated, ever ridiculed, and subject himself to the beast that lies past the line of life magic.

He wishes that he could have inherited fire magic from his mother, as his sister did. Demons are not interested in superficial destruction magic, as it holds no ties to human life nor soul, and gives them nothing in exchange for their assistance. Such thoughts are pointless to hold onto, and John dismisses it as quickly as it appears. Better address his guest quickly and get it over with.

 _What do you want from me?_ He dares to ask, hesitantly.

“I believe your exact words were, 'Anything. Everything.'” The demon sounds _bored?_ John can almost see a man sitting cross-legged, reading a book and hardly giving his thrall any mind in between flicks of pages. He, on the other hand, is mentally fumbling and wanting to throttle his past self for his wonderfully vague choice of words.

_Shit,_ he grumbles instead. 

“You will serve me until I grow bored of you. Then, I'll simply kill you and devour your heart. Much more potent than souls, I've discovered.” John should have expected this. Demons will always take advantage of a person anyway they can without a care in the world for their life.

Wait. Their _life._

 _No, no you can't. You can't kill me._ John's head is buzzing and he feels surprisingly smug, and he feels the demon recoil from him.

“Do you intend to try and stop me?” It asks in a hiss.

 _I don't have to stop you._ He wants to laugh, but cannot gather the strength to. _This... contract I made. It's in exchange for my life. That was the deal. You can't take it from me, now._

There's a moment of silence as John feels the demon contemplating his words, which is soon followed by a strangely warm chuckle.

“Ah, you're not as stupid as you look. You are correct, I am bound to never kill you. I can, however, make you wish I could. I can make every waking moment of your life a hell you can never escape from, and I can ensure you never die so long as I will not allow it.” The way it speaks so casually flares anger inside of John. No, he will not be some demon's play-thing. He doesn't need to feed the thing at all, nonetheless even so much as touch his magic ever again. It will starve in the back of his head and he will enjoy listening to its pained cries as it does.

 _And how do you think you'll manage that? I don't even use my magic all that much. There's nothing for you to feed from, where you are._ He feels his fingers dig into the sheets on his bed, excitement at finding a loophole rekindling his energy somewhat. _You won't get your power and you can't reach me._

“Ah, you poor, stupid human. What makes you think I can't reach you?” This voice is closer. Too close; John can hear it as plainly as the nurse who spoke to him earlier.

He feels sick as he forces his head to turn and sees a tall man, dressed darkly, watching him from across the room. His skin is too pale and his eyes are too bright.

_You, you--_

“I would never offer a contract that I could not use to its fullest potential.” The demon slowly steps over to John's bed, appearing less human and more ethereal as he does. The glow of its eyes highlights his cheekbones, and when it grins at him, John's blood turns to ice at the rows of pointed teeth that greet him.

“You belong to me now, John Watson.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I go, a full story I intend to continue.
> 
> Feel free to contact me on my tumblr with any questions. My URL is commanderderp.


	3. Payment

John blinks and the demon vanishes, leaving him lying alone in the small room, his chest heaving with pained breaths. He blinks a few more times in a row, wipes his eyes with the side of his hand-- a mistake, as his muscles scream from the effort-- but the demon is nowhere to be seen.

_Hello?_ He tries, and waits several seconds before giving up on hearing a response. There's nothing; only the bustle of doctors wheeling in injured soldiers and shouting at each other.

He's not sure how to feel at this point, and he's still not entirely sure he hasn't been hallucinating everything he's experienced. The demon and voice in his head could have easily been caused by delusion over stress from the war, rather than him actually contacting one. John isn't sure which scenario he'd prefer. Somehow, he doubts he's beginning to lose it so soon, and he can still remember the baritone of the demon's voice as it towered over him in too great of detail for it to be something he imagined.

_Some demon._ He thinks grumpily, closing his eyes. _Couldn't even patch up my shoulder all the way._

So, John does all he can do in his state: he waits. He tries to think about his squad, and whether or not any of them were as injured as he was, but in the end his thoughts all trail back to impossibly bright eyes and a long coat.

He feels... alone.

 

They called it “honorable discharge,” but John is filled with simmering anger and disappointment rather than any sort of honor. He leaves Afghanistan with his shoulder mostly healed, and with a new limp he hadn't expected to appear. He's gone from an active role in the war, a specialized combat doctor, as well using his proficiency with weapons, to a broken old man with a cane and hardly any money to speak of.

The days drag by agonizingly slow as John sits in a rut, nowhere to go outside of London, but having no ties to keep him in the city. He refuses to call Harry for help, not until she can get her own act together without John holding her hand all the way. It's almost as though he had the world and lost it in one foul swoop, and he has no time nor resources to react to the sudden change.

He decides to go for a walk to clear his head and waste some time.

The moment he steps outside, he feels something flare in his chest, and it sings to him.

 

Meeting Mike at the park was a stroke of luck, and hearing his offer about getting a flatmate to share the costs of living was too good to be true. He is bitter, still, about his circumstances, and he hasn't got a clue of how any living arrangements would work out with him. A jobless, crippled veteran. Who would want him for a flatmate?

He follows Mike to St. Bart's, enjoying the nostalgia that the building brings from his days at uni and interning. It has changed a lot since he was last there, but the familiarity of the place causes John's skin to buzz with excitement. Perhaps, this is what he needs, after all.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no reception on mine.”

John's world screeches to a sudden halt when he sees the demon sitting in the same lab as him, looking down through a microscope lens at various slides. Its sitting there, under the guise of a man, using the equipment... but something doesn't feel right.

“What's wrong with the landline?” Mike asks from beside him.

“I prefer to text.” That's the voice. John can recognize that voice clear as day, from his dying moment to lying in the A&E. This man _has_ to be the same demon that accepted a contract with him. His heart is racing, and he takes a large step forward.

“Here, use mine.” John offers his phone out and the demon looks straight at him. There's no glow in his eyes, though they are an interesting pale blue, and no fangs. The stranger takes the phone and begins to tick away on the keys as John stands in an awkward silence.

_He has to be, but..._

“I see you came back from Afghanistan in one piece.” He glances up a John for the briefest of seconds before returning his attention to his phone. “Mostly.”

John looks over at Mike, who simply smiles. Damn him.

“How did you know that?” He asks, though he already knows the answer. He receives his phone back and locks eyes with the man who may or may not be his demon. “That I came back from Afghanistan?”

The man stands to his full height and smiles, and John gasps as the world around him in swallowed in darkness. He hears his shoes clicking against tile, but everything is utter blackness no matter which direction he looks. He searches for Mike, who has predictably disappeared, and then looks back and finds his demon standing mere feet from him.

“Right on time, Doctor. I was becoming horribly bored waiting for you to return,” the demon says, clapping his hands together.

“I was right,” John says low, under his breath, “it is you. Why are you here?”

“Collecting my payment, naturally. All I had to do was pull a few strings, and here you are.” He gestures out at John, who steps two paces back. “Oh please, don't be like that. We're going to be flatmates, after all, and it would be immensely inconvenient for me if you had to back away every time I entered the room.”

“Who said anything about flatmates?” John's brows furrow in suspicion.

“You did. That's why you're here, isn't it?” The demon shoves his hands in the pockets of his coat. The edges of it seem to flare out in tendrils and blend into the darkness. “I have a brilliant place in mind, and for a good deal as well. I really don't have to explain this to you, since you'll be heading there shortly.”

“And who is deciding that?” John's patience is wearing thin at the demon's arrogance, and he broadens his shoulders unconsciously. The demon notices this, of course, and chuckles.

“A little of both of us. You owe me your life, so I expect you'll be good and do as I say.” He steps closer, passing John's boundaries and sticking his face mere inches away from his; so close that their noses nearly brush. “And,” he adds in a whisper, “I can give you the excitement you crave. You want to see action again, John Watson? I can give you it and more, if you'll accept what I have to offer you.”

John looks into the demon's eyes and is immediately lost into their void, the lull of the creature's voice forcibly lowering his guard. _No!_ His mind screams as his body relaxes, _This is his plan. This is how he's going to capture--_

The demon watches in genuine surprise as John snaps back and away from him in one, jerky movement, and clears his throat.

“I'm not going to let you control me,” he explains calmly to the figure whose eyes widen, “and what I do with my life, regardless of our deal, is still up to me. You will _not_ use me.”

“Hm,” is all the demon murmurs as a response, slinking away from John. “This will be--” 

There's a sound like rushing water slamming against his ears, and when John blinks then next time, he's back in Bart's and the demon is back to being a man in a dress suit.

He quickly stands and puts his coat on, a perfectly normal one this time, and heads to the door, stopping only to look back at John and proclaim, “The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street.”

_Sherlock Holmes,_ John turns over in his head as he watches his demon wink, and sweep out of the room.

Out of morbid curiosity, he reaches to tap into his magic, and is met with not only a surplus of his own, but an inhuman fire-- the demon's magic-- quivering in excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates will be less frequent from now on. I have plenty of time to write, so I intend to do so as much as I can and lengthen the chapters. Better quality, better planning, win-win.


	4. Ignite

Mike was of little help to John after his and Sherlock's meeting, simply stating “He's always like that.” John didn't know what, of their encounter, he saw, and chose to bite his tongue for the time being and focus on the task at hand. That is, meeting his demon at the new flat. As much as John would have loved to be spiteful and flee, he knew the attempt would be for naught, and it was in his better interest to at least look at the living arrangements before having an attitude toward it. He wouldn't deny that his current bedsit was utter shite.

Even with the steady flicker of dark magic grounding him to his ordeal, John saw no more of the demon that afternoon. _Sherlock,_ he would frequently remind himself. _His name is Sherlock._ This only opened more questions: do demons have names? What's so different about Sherlock compared to the rest of his kind? How does he sustain himself on the mortal plane without actively taking the life force of a contracted human? John still felt the heavy threads of magic that connected them, even if Sherlock didn't attempt to manipulate it any further, nor try to open communications with him.

It was definitely a topic that would be open for discussion the next day, John decided with only a small sense of dread, when he met Sherlock at 221B.

 

That night, John dreams of the desert, darkened and bathed in pale moonlight. It is empty, and not a sound but the wind whistling past his ears. He struggles to walk in the sand and becomes quickly frustrated as it catches his feet with every step. He has no destination in mind, and there's nothing in every direction, so he decides to settle in one spot and watch the stars. He doesn't feel the chill of the night air, which is unusual but not unpleasant.

“This place holds significance to you,” a voice says to him. 

John nods a little and takes in a slow breath. “I felt alive here. It was everything I ever wanted.”

“What _do_ you want?”

He closes his eyes and imagines he hears music being carried on the wind.

“Harry always did call me a thrill-seeker. I guess I'm a bit of an adrenaline junkie.” He laughs lightly, “I don't want to sit and grow old in the mundane. I want to _live._ I'm not ready to settle down yet, I don't think. Maybe some day I'll be worn out and sit at home with a wife and kids, but not right now.”

“You rejected my offer for exactly that.” Sherlock has materialized in front of him. “I can give this all to you, you know I can, but you still pushed me away.” He sounds mystified, and John looks up to see his face scrunched up in intense thought. 

“I'm not one to enjoy being handed things. I like to earn what I have,” John explains, hugging his knees close to his chest. “It would be easier to accept a demon's help, yeah, but it just wouldn't be the same. I want to make my own path to get what I want.”

“What makes you so certain your way will lead you there?” Sherlock asks, “Why do you embrace uncertainty? What good is there in rushing in blindly? _Mindlessly_?”

“That's the fun of it, I guess. Ever hear the expression 'it's the journey, not the destination?' Even if I don't find what I'm looking for, I could stumble across something far better. It's a risk I'm willing to take.” John feels satisfied, somewhat, while Sherlock appears as lost as ever. In that way, John no longer sees a demon standing before him. He sees a spoiled child, used to getting his way and ready to throw a tantrum when he is told no. He sees a troubled adult, someone who is remarkably insecure, but with such bravado that his weaknesses are hidden to the plain eye. He sees... a man.

“There is nothing about you that is out of the norm,” Sherlock says quietly, “nothing special. You are absolutely ordinary in every sense of the word, but you are so _extremely_ different, and I don't understand why. What exactly are you, John Watson?”

John struggles back to his feet, ignoring the feeling of sand scratching uncomfortably against his skin. The wind has stopped.

“That's actually the same question I have for you.” Something flickers across Sherlock's gaze, an expression John can't quite grasp but stirs him on regardless, “What are _you,_ Sherlock?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but freezes in place. For a moment, John feels as though he's made some sort of progress with this being, perhaps made a better and mutual understanding with one another, but then something dark washes over his pale face and his eyes flash white.

“I am a demon,” Sherlock growls, “I am the result of unforgivable sin and a soulless manifestation of hatred. I will get what I want in the end, even if I have to destroy everything and _everyone_ who gets in my way. I don't care one bit for human life, and you are no exception. Never forget that.” He spins around, coat flaring, and begins to fade away into the darkness.

“No-- wait!” John cries, reaching out, but his vision blurs and the world crumbles beneath his feet. 

_Sher--_

He wakes with a start, the name dead on his lips.

 

John decides to skip formalities when he meets Sherlock on the sidewalk in front of 221B. The bastard's already been in his head multiple times, so another introduction would be unnecessary. It is awkward, however, making their way to the door while John worries his lower lip to prevent himself from saying something particularly idiotic, or questioning what had happened the previous night. How much of his mind even belonged to him, anymore, since Sherlock thoroughly invaded every nook of his thoughts and dreams?

More importantly, if he could do anything he wanted to John-- manipulate him as is a demon's specialty-- why didn't he?

“Oh, you must be Doctor Watson!” The elderly landlady, Mrs. Hudson, said with a bright smile. “The flat's just upstairs. Please, make yourself at home.”

_Are you aware that your tenant is a demon?_ He thinks, mildly amused at the way Sherlock became docile and embraced the woman, as though they were family.

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock speaks once they've gotten up the stairs and into 221B. “I'm sure John would like some tea while we talk more about the flat.” Though the statement is not for him, John is the target of Sherlock's intense stare.

“Oh, just this once!” Mrs. Hudson lightly waves her hand. “I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper!” She adjusts her blouse and proceeds out the door and back downstairs.

Immediately, Sherlock's straightens and he storms over to John, eyes flashing.

“No, she _doesn't_ know what I am, and I would appreciate it if no one else did, either.” He hisses, nose wrinkling. John's throat convulses in a swallow, but he stands his ground. “Our contract stays between you and me, do you understand? You're not to say _anything_ about it to _anyone._ ”

“It's hard to talk about something I hardly understand, myself,” John shoots back, squaring himself to face Sherlock properly. “So what the hell happened last night, and what _are_ you, even? A demon pretending to be a person? Or is there something still human--”

Molten heat explodes in John's chest, and he drops to his knees as pain floods through his system. His hand digs into the fabric of his shirt, his mouth falling open in a silent scream. His heart is throbbing, struggling against some invisible force to keep functioning.

John forces himself to look up, blinking through tears, and sees Sherlock clenching a fist out in front of him.

“I _warned_ you,” the demon snarls, “I will never kill you, but I can make you wish you were dead. Don't you _dare_ speak to me of what I am, as though I don't know.” He reaches forward and snags a fistful of John's collar in his free hand. “The only reason why I've been so charitable is because I found you interesting, but it would be quite easy for me to find your presence to be more trouble than it's worth.”

Sherlock's magic stops suddenly, and John gasps in relief, his own cool magic easing outward from his chest and soothing the burns. He feels a hand on his arm, and is surprised as Sherlock helps him back to his feet. His legs are wobbly, and for a moment he stumbles into the taller man, but otherwise he is no worse for wear.

“I don't-- I don't believe you,” John tries, and is pleased at how normal his voice sounds. “You threaten me, you adamantly tell me you're not human, you pull _this,_ but then...”

There's sounds coming from downstairs, which he assumes is Mrs. Hudson digging through her kitchen. Sherlock likely only helped him up to prevent a panic from _her,_ not to spare _his_ feelings.

“There's more to it, isn't there? I saw it. You were... I don't know.” He blinks hard to clear his eyes. In the black behind his eyelids, he sees the look of confusion on Sherlock's face as they stood out in the imaginary desert. That moment of vulnerability. “I don't know if you're trying to deceive me, if I'm being lead right into a trap, or if I'm right. We're going to be stuck together for a while, anyway, and I really think I'd like to get to know the Sherlock that's human. You know, the one that doesn't set my insides on fire.”

“There it is again,” Sherlock mumbles, “the foolishness. Rushing in blind. I can play the part of human, though my success is arguable, and yet here you are talking as though I am two separate individuals. I _am_ a demon, John. That much is certain.” He steps away from John, his shoes heavy against the floor. “Are you so confident that I can be human for you? What will you do if you're wrong, and if I destroy you from the inside out?”

John inhales deeply, licking his lips. “I don't know. I don't have anything going for me otherwise. If you do end up... corrupting me or whatever, that's the price I pay for making a deal with a demon. I'm not afraid of you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock is silent, his back facing John and head lowered slightly. The seconds tick by as John listens to Mrs. Hudson head back upstairs.

“Well?” John holds his arms out in a wide gesture.

“As a human, I have a certain career,” the demon begins, turning slowly around. “I'm the only one in the world, as I invented the job myself. Perhaps, as an army doctor, you could be of some use to me.”


End file.
